Amaranthine
by KayteaEM
Summary: The prophecy is more literal than anyone realized.


**Title: **Amaranthine

**Fandom: **Harry Potter

**Characters: **Harry, the Dursleys, Dumbledore, misc.

**Pairings: **None

**WARNING: **This story alludes to self-harm and attempted suicide. Read at your own risk.

**A/N: **Slight warning for OOC!Harry. I realize that much of this may not coincide with his character in the book but it's an idea that I wanted to explore. Enjoy

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><p>1.<p>

He's six years old and he's... frustrated.

He's heard adults refer to this as 'one of those days,' a time when every little thing goes wrong and not even the tiniest of things goes right. A week ago today the laundry machine broke with a loud burp and a spray of blue-green foam so he'd had to spend the day washing clothes by hand, which meant he couldn't get to the garden until Wednesday, which meant that Thursday became Vacuum Day and Friday was now for bed sheets and he'd spent the whole weekend painting even though the rain kept washing it away… But now it was Tuesday again and things still weren't done. He was washing the kitchen floor instead of washing clothes and it just wasn't _right. _

"Aunt Petunia?"

"_What?_"

"Shouldn't I be doing the laundry?"

She looks down but her eyes sort of glaze over. He can't remember the last time she really looked at him, if she ever did.

"The machine isn't fixed yet. You'll wash our clothes once you're done with the floor. And don't you _dare _stain anything with that bleach."

"But what about dinner?" Harry always cooks, careful not to burn or splash or waste even the smallest of morsels. The food is made quickly. It's served to them from the left, as is proper, and cleared from the right. He never touches the plates with his grubby little hands but uses a tea towel, embroidered and smelling of popery. Freaks don't get any food unless everything is done properly and only then if there's any left.

There hasn't been anything left for a while.

"We're going out." Aunt Petunia sniffed. "_You _will complete your regular chores and then start in on the bathroom. The Madisons are visiting tomorrow to see the remodeling I've done in the guest room and I _won't _have them exposed to such filth. Do you understand?"

"Yes Aunt Petunia."

She pauses, glaring down at him as he scrubs the floor, careful to work the brush between every grove of the tile.

"Am I going to regret leaving you here alone?" A year ago Aunt Petunia left him finishing the dishes while they all went out for ice cream. He'd stupidly snuck some bread from the top shelf and was later caught with it in his cupboard. Aunt Petunia reminded him that no one would ever love a filthy, stinking thief and that he couldn't be left alone again until he learned to behave. But that was a year ago, when he was _five. _He wasn't a baby anymore. He knew better. He'd _be _better.

"No Aunt Petunia. I'll be good."

"Damn right you will you miserable-" He can feel the hiss of her breath against his cheek but then there's a rumbling above and the rest of the family lumbers down the stairs. Aunt Petunia immediately leaps from his side and starts hustling Dudley into his coat, pinching his cheeks and kissing his nose. All Harry has to do is scrub harder, work faster, catch up on all the chores that _stupid _washing machine has kept him from getting done and then, then…

Then Aunt Petunia will smooth his hair like that.

He's on his knees, facing away from the front door but he can hear everything behind him. It's the clink of Uncle Vernon's car keys that sparks the thought, reminds him that the upstairs bathroom is always locked so that little freaks can't soil the toilet or steal undeserved drinks from the tap. But if the bathroom is locked then he can't clean it and if it isn't clean by the time they get home…

"Wait!"

They actually stop halfway out the door, shocked that they're being addressed by a ghost.

"Um… what-what do you want me to about… about the…" He's pointing up, trying to remember his words in the face of Uncle Vernon's purpling face, but surprisingly it's Aunt Petunia who looses her temper.

"What I _want,_" she hisses, hauling him back into the kitchen "is to go out and have a relaxing dinner with my family. Do you know how exhausting it is? Dealing with you every day? You and all your questions! What I _want _is for you to shut your little trap, clean the goddamn floor, and then _drink _the rest of that bleach so I never have to look at your face ever again!"

With that she's out the door, far, far away from him, and Harry can hear the swish of a coat sleeve as Uncle Vernon puts an arm around her shoulders.

He always does that. Makes them… upset.

But Harry is smart. He _knows _that if he just does what he's told - and does it well – things will get better.

So he carefully finishes scrubbing the floor. He doesn't let himself worry about the upstairs bathroom because he can't get to it anyway. When the rest of the house is polished a brilliant, glittering white and the other supplies are safely in the closet, he parks himself in his cupboard and gently shuts the door.

He then chugs the rest of the bleach.

There's something like fire that flashes down his throat, settling in his stomach. It churns there, contracting the muscles and then eating away at them until he feels even thinner than he was before. There's a great deal of gagging and vomiting – in his cupboard mind, never on the freshly cleaned floors – but he manages to finish the bottle in under an hour. And if he couldn't open his eyes for a while, if he couldn't get his limbs to move even when he heard them returning and they started screaming about the continued filth upstairs… well, it was all for the best. Aunt Petunia didn't want to see his face anyway.

* * *

><p>A few years later – when he understands the words 'toxic' and 'corrosive' – he'll wonder why the bleach didn't kill him – as, no doubt, some part of Aunt Petunia hoped it would. But he just shakes his head at the little green symbol on the bottle and assumes that the manufactures were wrong.<p>

* * *

><p>Years after that, while studying a set of potion ingredients with remarkably similar compounds, he'll think back on that moment and assume that his magic had saved him.<p>

He was wrong about that too.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

He's ten years old and can feel the vibrations shooting up his legs.

There's nothing unusual about this feeling. He's experienced it a hundred times before. The ache in the arches of his feet and the sting on his ankles at his too-big sneakers begin rubbing, taking the skin of in half moon flaps. There's the shock of cold against his stomach as the air – air he's creating from his speed – collides with the sweat pooling against his navel. He can feel his chest heaving against his ribs and despite what they say in the movies there's no rushing in his ears. Instead, he hears every sound with a heightened, awful clarity.

"Gonna get -gonna get you freak!"

It's Dudley's voice behind him and the slight hitch of breath says he's slowing down but not necessarily stopping. Not yet. Best to keep going until he hears no threats at all – silence, after all, can be nearly as telling as sound. And that's how one outruns a mob: by listening. You never look back. Looking back just slows you down.

Although, five isn't really a 'mob' now is it? But it's enough. Dudley, Peers, Jason, Max, and Andrew. Two are fat enough that they'll give up soon. Two others aren't leaders and will stop when the first two do. One, Peers, might still be able to catch him.

It's as if he's engaged in a summoning because suddenly there's another pair of sneakers clipping his heels and the brush of a hand against his back. Without looking (you never, ever look) he can picture the stubby fingers and grimy nails scrambling for purchase. If those ten plump piggies succeed they'll be crying 'victory!' all the way home and will happily roast Harry Potter on a spit.

The fingers inch closer, just barely threading themselves through the weave of his shirt and in that split second before they tighten, joints contracting in a sick kind of glee, Harry is wishing that he's somewhere, _anywhere _but here.

For the first time in his life, his wish comes true.

It all happens so fast and really, how would _you_ explain it? One moment he's a step ahead of a pounding and the next he's balanced precariously on the edge of the school's roof. The _roof. _But that's okay. Really, really it is. He did say _anywhere _right? All that matters is that he's up here and they're down there. Him here, them there. Wonderful. Absolutely, brilliantly, won-

His foot slips.

The momentum takes him backwards, away from his pursuers and into the school's basketball court. It's January, there's a bit of snow on the ground, so no-one is out playing ball that day. There's no-one to see him fall. No-one to hear the _crack! _of his head hitting the pavement, the _snap! _of the bone in his neck, the rhythmic _thump-thump-thump _of a shoe as his body spasms for a moment and then finally, finally stills…

Harry wakes up an hour later.

* * *

><p>Years from now he'll entertain his friends with the story of how he first apparated. He'll spin a tale of fleeing from Dudley's gang, finding himself on the roof… and then gently being coaxed down by a firefighter. It will be a thrilling, comic tale that keeps them laughing for a good five minutes. It's easy to create lies when the goal is to make them happy.<p>

He won't tell them how he woke up covered in blood and urine, with something that looked suspiciously grey lying beside his head.

He won't tell them of the hell he caught when he finally got home. How Aunt Petunia screamed and screamed when she saw the blood, but never because she was concerned.

He won't tell them that each day he searches for an answer but hasn't found one yet.

* * *

><p>3.<p>

He's fifteen and feels only the sharp bite of glass against his palm.

Dumbledore is speaking to him, mouthing words that are no doubt meant to comfort and manipulate all at once, but Harry refuses to make eye contact, especially when doing so would be both dangerous and a sign of forgiveness.

He isn't ready to forgive this man yet.

So he keeps his eyes trained on his hand where the steady pulse alerts him to blood flowing determinedly towards an open wound. Slowly, with a tender care he didn't know he still possessed, he unfurls his fingers to reveal a two inch cut with a one inch piece of silver imbedded near his lifeline: a piece of the old man's irreplaceable – and now shattered – collection of trinkets.

But just as quickly he retracts his fingers. For some strange, irrational reason he doesn't want Dumbledore seeing he's hurt.

"Harry?"

His name becomes a starting block for a wealth of information. Suddenly he's being told everything he'd wanted to know and many things he'd never hoped to hear. He feels like he did back on the Hogwarts express when, tempted by an entire cartful of treats, he'd gorged himself until something he once craved soon became something to avoid. Right now, even though he hasn't eaten all day, he has that same queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And yet the sweetness keeps coming. He's filled with information about Sirius, the Order, his past, others' futures, and finally a prophecy…

His hand spasms, sending the shard in deeper, but his face doesn't change.

"Harry?"

Doesn't miss a thing now does he? Dumbledore thinks he's reacting to the prophecy's conclusion. He is, but not for the reasons Dumbledore thinks. One line plays in a loop round his head, over and over, and over again.

_And either must die at the hand of the other. _

_And either must die at the hand of the other. _

_And either must die at the hand of the other. _

Interesting. How literal are prophecies?

He's six, chugging a bottle of bleach and waking up fine the next morning. He's ten, falling off a roof and ignoring the blood and brains that cover his clothes. He's twelve, conveniently forgetting that the basilisk venom had plenty of time to kill him…

So many questions. One simple explanation.

"Harry?"

Eventually he leaves the office, having no recollection of how he gained his freedom (but when a tiny voice whispers that the solution was making an old man cry, he resolutely ignores that too). He walks until realizes there's a door to his right, beckoning him to come inside.

And if he makes use of the shard in his hand – if the room he requires is filled with other, sharper things meant for arteries and wrists – well, no reason to worry. It's not as if he could have succeeded.

* * *

><p>Many years later Harry says, "you knew."<p>

Dumbledore says, "yes."

* * *

><p>4.<p>

He's many, _many _years old and can't decide how that feels.

So much has passed him by. The big (_a red haired woman holds a newborn child, smiling up at him_) and the small (_have the first years always been that tiny? Surely, surely not…) _

He's witnessed the staggering things too. Like a twisted, malicious man finally being condemned back into the earth. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. To Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived – Again.

But that was a long time ago.

So long, in fact, that years after it was merely A Long Time Ago he stands before a first year, trying to instill in him a drive to defend himself, although he lives in world where that's not nearly as important as it once was.

Bored with the lesson, he stares through his teacher until something catches his eye, sparking interest. Finally he asks,

"Hey, how'd you get that lightening bolt scar?"

_Dum vivimus, vivamus. _

_Fin._

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><p>Latin: "While we live, let us live."<p> 


End file.
